One Second
by SarahBlackwood
Summary: 1997, Alex Price takes a job with the CIA and tries to put her parents' murder behind her. She meets David Drake: a mysterious, attractive man who drags her along on an adventure that will change her life. Now what does all this have to do with Gene Hunt?
1. One

Here's my second attempt! It's a bit different and should be a pain to write but ah well! Let know know what you think!! Read and review.

Thanks to Lucida Bright for the beta and lilgreenmomo for support!

I don't own Ashes or Alex.

One Second

One:

They say that just before you die your entire past flashes in front of your eyes.

Alex Price sees her future. In one second she sees everything. She's only 24, too young to die. She hasn't even really lived yet.

In that second she sees every memory and mistake that hasn't happened yet. She sees herself in the mirror six months pregnant with no wedding ring. She sees a shower of rice and white satin wedding shoes. She sees the hospital chart of a suicide who threw himself off a building: Taylor, or Tyler, the name is smudged. She sees a little girl blowing out birthday candles and a man with lank hair and smudged sunglasses stretched out in the backseat of a car. Alex sees a woman in a short red dress crumpling to the ground like a puppet whose strings have been cut. She sees a wall of roses and a garden in flames. She sees a tall man holding her in his arms in the rain, it feels like coming home.

When she thinks of Evan's last words to her at the airport she shudders.

"You'll see, Alex, you'll live to regret this," he'd said as he handed her the carry on bag and a newspaper. But Alex isn't in the habit of regretting things. And she isn't going to live either by the look of it. Why didn't she try to reassure Evan? It would have only taken one second. Just a hug and a reassurance that she'd be back. That she loved him. Alex had walked through that gate straight backed and merciless, limping slightly in her new heels. She'd walked straight towards death.

The oxygen masks pop out of the compartment above her and she grabs one. She pulls at the elastic band struggling to remember how it works. The man beside seems calm enough; he helps her adjust the mask.

She grabs on to the nearest object, grits her teeth and closes her eyes. Let it be quick, she prays. For one sweet second there is no sound. Alex opens her eyes again. There is no movement, the world stands still. In this world, she sees the passengers frozen where they sit, heads in hands, bent in prayer, hands clasped in other hands. The stewardess petrified in the process of helping an unaccompanied minor. An old woman motionless, her tears paused in mid-track caught between the folds of skin. Is this the way her parents saw the world seconds before the bomb, that day in October all those years ago? The unmoving world? The peace?

This must be it Alex thinks, not scary after all.

"Hey there." An amused voice says. Alex blinks. Sound rushes back. Excited cheers of relieved passengers, the bawling of babies, someone behind her, giving his thanks to god in Hebrew.

The man next to her is smiling he looks down at his knee pointedly. The knee she's

gripping with all her might. She draws her hand back in a hurry.

"It's all right now, it's passed. Gave us a good scare for a while but we got through the worst of the storm."

He has green eyes. That's the first thing she notices. He has eyes so green they can't possibly be real. He has a boyish smile and dimples. Dimples! She smiles back at him, amazed at herself. She's flirting. She's actually flirting with a green eyed American with dimples when only seconds before she thought she was going to die.

"First time?"

She gives him a quizzical look. He's a pretty one. Dazzling smile, long lashes, expensive suit but not flashy. Too bad he's not my type Alex thinks. Too smooth, too young, too pretty, too nice.

"First time flying?" He clarifies.

"Of course not!" She says, hoping he can't see the truth.

It isn't her first flight. There had been trips to Spain with Evan, school trips, a few days in Munich with an ex boyfriend for Oktoberfest. But it was her first time flying to the United States. A flight she had always hoped to take with her father. He'd promised to show her New York, together they would climb the bronze statue of Alice in Wonderland in Central Park; they'd eat cotton candy on Coney Island; he'd buy her a new dolly at FAO Schwartz. They would write postcards to Mum recounting their adventures. Alex sees these things in her head like a film made with a hand held camera. It all seems so real, so poignant, she can smell the leaves in the park; she can taste the ice cream and spun sugar.

But these things never happened. Tim and Caroline Price are dead. Only their charred remains were laid to rest in the cold earth. Alex attended their funeral holding her Godfather's hand; her new black shoes chaffed and her dress was scratchy grey wool. She remembers fidgeting uncomfortably trying to twist free from Evan's grasp. Looking for someone. Someone not close enough to see properly. Even now she cranes her head over the tops of seats and passenger's heads, automatically searching for that elusive figure, the habit ingrained. Was he her friend? Or was he the man who planted the bomb? She can't remember, no matter how many times she replays the scene in her head. No matter how many times she sees them die in her mind's eye. The explosion is reflected in the green eyes of the man sitting next to her. She flinches.

He notices. "Are you okay?" The man asks.

Alex nods. It's a lie; she isn't okay. The turbulence has shaken loose memories better left buried. And in one second she's been reduced to a nervy mess. That's nonsense though; no point burying memories. Alex, qualified as a psychologist, knows that. But why did they resurface now that she's finally free? Just as she's left Evan and began her life in earnest?

"Just had a bit of a shock, that's all." She tries to steady her voice. Why does she keep seeing them explode over and over and over again? The red balloon floating and the hand grasping her own as if leading her into a dance.

"You're fine now."

She looks down. He's holding her hand. Alex marvels at the intimacy for a good few seconds before pulling away. How dare he? She looks him straight in the eyes and lifts her chin.

"Yes. I'm fine now."

He has an honest look, a straight nose, nut brown hair that flops in his face somewhat, even his ears are nice. But there's something in the eyes, something sharp. Something old. What are you hiding green eyed American boy?

"What's your name?" He asks.

"Alex." Alex answers and pointedly doesn't ask him for his.

She thought, her first trip America, would be different: that she and her father would be driven from JFK to their New York hotel in one of those yellow taxis. She never thought she'd be flying to Washington DC, on her way to Langley, to take up a job. It is all so dreadfully exciting. Like a James Bond film. Except for the fact that she is staying with Aunt Carol, who arranged this job for her.

The thought of seeing Aunt Carol, who isn't her aunt at all but an old school friend of her father's, is daunting. They had last crossed paths at her parent's funeral and it hadn't been a pretty sight. Carol had been emotional, weeping openly and cursing Evan. At last the police had to escort her away. She still remembers the sight of glamorous Aunt Carol, her long dark hair streaming down her back, her nails painted bright red, being dragged bodily from the room by two policemen. They hadn't been in uniform, but all the same she knew what they were, one with curly hair and a moustache and the other slighter with brown hair. Alex curses her selective memory. It all seems like a puzzle she needs to solve in order to gain closure.

They land uneventfully at Dulles International Airport and Alex struggles towards Immigration in her new high heels, her hair coming loose from its silver hairclip. Carol will be waiting for her at Arrivals. Alex tries to paint a picture of her sixteen years on. Still stick thin and willowy? Still dressed in the latest Paris fashion? Her lips a stab of crimson in her pale face?

Will she approve of me? Alex thinks desperately. She stops to smooth the front of her suit and brush off the narrow skirt, both a conspicuous ruby red. She curses herself for not finding the time to colour her hair and have her fringe trimmed. Her natural dark blonde is hardly sophisticated.

"Hey, British girl!" Someone yells. Alex keeps moving.

"Alex!"

She stops. It's her fellow passenger. He isn't a tall man Alex realises, now that she sees him on his feet. But he holds himself well. There's something casually elegant about him. And a fluidness when he moves. Yes, he's shorter than Alex even without her heels; a twinge of disappointment tugs at her chest. He dips into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out his wallet; presses a square of paper into her hand: Daniel Davis. Accountant. And then a mobile telephone number.

"Call me sometime." His smile could light up the sky.


	2. Another One

Sorry this took so long. I'm trying to adjust to my new job and the long hours.

Thanks you so much to Lucida Bright for helping me with this, it wouldn't be the same without her. Thanks to Clownish for the US picking and helping me tweak David's language.

Hopefully more soon. Review! I need it! I want it! ;o)

**Another One:**

I get the call on the way home from the airport.

"Matt Greenwald is dead. I'm so sorry Agent Drake." My boss says, his voice laden with sympathy. Well at least he took the time to tell me personally. I thank him for informing me in a neutral tone and patiently listen to the rest of what he has to say. He gives me the evening off; I'm to come in for a debriefing in the morning.

The bad news only really hits home when I open the door and enter the house.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Four times I kick the door. The flimsy front door I've always hated. That door that can't even keep out the draught, let alone everything I'm trying to shut out.

"Stop it, Drake you'll ruin your shoes." Judith Laskin says in an even tone, not even looking up from her newspaper. I took back her key weeks ago. I told her not to come over unannounced. But there she is.

"Fuck my shoes." I enunciate every word.

They aren't even my shoes. They belong to Daniel Davis. And I can't wait to shut them and the rest of Daniel into the closet where they belong: next to Derek Daniels and the other one, the photographer. I try to keep the legends separate in my head, right down to their preference in women. Daniel Davis is a notorious flirt. Derek is a shy introverted type, too timid for girls, or boys for that matter. Then there's David Drake, Clandestine Operative, the real me.

And that is Judith Laskin, CIA Public Affairs. Judith was David's girlfriend once upon a time, my girlfriend. She is sitting on my burgundy leather sofa, looking at me with those brown doe eyes. Her back is straight as a rod. She doesn't look like a girl reading a newspaper; her posture is too perfect, she might be a queen on a throne. Her feet are shoeless, parallel to each other on the red and gold carpet, long and thin as a dancer's in her stockings. She folds the paper in half and places it on the mahogany coffee table.

I stand against the door with the back of my head resting against the stained glass panel. Judith gets up wheels my suitcase to the bottom of the stairs and tries to relieve me of my briefcase.

"Give it to me David." She says softly.

Only then do I notice I'm gripping its handle with both hands, so hard my knuckles are bone white. Then she gives me the once over. I know what she sees: the charcoal grey suit, the red silk tie she gave me for my birthday; my hair needs a trim, my eyes are bloodshot and I'm too thin. I should eat better. All the food groups and shit like that.

Judith looks like she always does, trim, neat, reliable. Her reddish blond hair is pulled sharply away from her face in a ponytail. Her skirt is just below the knee. There isn't a smudge on her plain wire rimmed glasses. Her face is fresh, young, seemingly devoid of makeup.

"Why don't you tell me what happened in London?" She says, pulling on my hand.

I let her guide me to the sofa and sink down. The displaced feeling is stronger than usual. It's always the same. Every time I come home, every time, even sometimes if I've only been to the supermarket for a carton of milk. Part of me doesn't recognize my surroundings. Part of me just wants to go home. Then I remember I am home, in Alexandria, Virginia. In my house, the house my father left me in his will. My father thought he would live to see his son married on the lawn, to see his grandchildren skipping rope in the yard, running down the stairs in socked feet on Christmas morning, baking brownies in the kitchen. He didn't think he'd be dead at fifty two. He didn't think his son would be working as a spy, still too caught up in it all to even think of getting married. So now it's my house. Every inch of it from the formal living room with its dark brocade curtains to the gleaming unused kitchen, from the ornate master bedroom to the potted ferns on the patio and the American flag fluttering at the front door. The house my mother decorated. I hate it with a passion. I hate it so much I'd rather be in some flea-ridden hotel in Belgrade or in some stinking shit-hole of a safe house.

I snap back from my reverie. Judith is still standing beside the sofa holding my briefcase. She has that look on her face again, the patient, placid smile, her eyes fixed on mine.

"It's Matt." I say.

She flounders in confusion. "What about Matt? Is he back with the Company? Weren't you in London cutting a deal with MI5?"

"Yeah. And I thought I'd check on him. It's been two years and he never was good at writing letters. But I couldn't find him." I pause here; daring her to tell me I should have respected his wishes and left him alone. She doesn't. "I got the call after I landed here. He was killed two days ago: car bomb."

She places my briefcase on the coffee table taking care not to scratch the varnish. She does it slowly, buying time before she shows me her reaction. I'm surprised when she finally looks up. Her eyes are glassy with tears. I forgot she liked Matt, she liked his fiancée Maureen. Maureen has someone else now, a normal guy. He's someone who works for a bank or an insurance company, not someone who came back broken from Serbia, crying out in a foreign tongue in his sleep. I forgot it was Matt who spent weeks on the phone with Judith after we broke up. And there is the guilt again. Familiar and strangely comforting at this moment, as if to say things can't possibly be so bad if I can still feel guilty.

"Who would do something like that?" Tears are coming fast now, streaking down her face. She wipes them away with the back of her hand. Judith should never cry, she doesn't have the complexion for it, her face is red and splotches are starting to bloom on her neck.

"Why, David?"

"You know I can't answer that." I say softly.

I want to tell her. But I don't know the answers either. I want to comfort her. Shit. I'm sorry I just blurted it out like that but I wasn't expecting this. I landed in Dulles feeling happy. Having secured the deal we wanted, having met a beautiful girl. I was filled with the rush you feel after a rough flight, the contentment just to be alive. And then that call. In one second everything can change. Now I'm filled with dull rage, and a kind of tired sadness.

"Who would do this? What enemies did he have?" Her voice is high and thin, childish as it always gets when she cries. It takes on that slight Canadian accent she inherited from her mother. I hand her a box of Kleenex and tell her I don't know.

Matt left the Company after the war in Bosnia, his girl left him; he moved to London and lived there under a false name. He could have made new enemies. It could have been someone from the Balkan days. It could have been any number of people.

"Well. Leave it alone, David."

I stare at her uncomprehendingly. Leave it alone? I let it alone. I let him leave and never tried to talk things through with him. He'd been like my brother. He'd saved my life loads of times. But when one of us decides to leave the life you respect his wishes. I did, and now he's dead. I'll be damned if I leave it alone now.

"Promise me you'll talk to someone, Drake. Psych evaluation." Judith says wiping her cheeks and straightening her hair.

I promise her and send her home to call Maureen and offer condolences; like that cold bitch even deserves to be informed. The fuck I'll see someone, talk to someone about this! What can they possibly tell me? They'll give me two weeks leave and a handful of prescription pills.

I shower and have a pizza delivered. I type up a report of the events in London. I flick through the channels and settle for a Bogart film on TNT but I don't watch it. I stare past the screen and wonder how I got here. What idiot chooses to surround himself with secrets and rules and dead colleagues and friends? What idiot has a locked closet in his bedroom housing the wardrobes of four separate identities? Has four different drivers' licenses, several passports? I used to think this was fun. Other men have families. Other men come home and leave their work at the front door. Where is my wife and where is my child? Where's my fucking life?

The phone rings. It's my mother. She's the only one who ever calls the landline. "Ma?"

She launches into a round of accusations. I let her talk. She's trying to break her own record tonight. When am I coming to Boston? Did I get her the stuff she wanted from Harrods? Why I don't get a nice quiet job that doesn't involve jetting off to every corner of the planet? My mother thinks I'm an investment banker. If she only knew.

I spend another few hours watching the sports channel and reading old magazines but I can't seem to concentrate. Then I know what I have to do. I put on jeans and a sweatshirt and sneakers. I walk to my car, the gravel of the driveway crunching underfoot. I'm going to see Matt's parents. By now they've told them some excuse. It's three in the morning. Too early for an impromptu visit. Or is it too late? But I can't just stay at home; I need to be doing something. I get in the grey Honda Accord and just sit there for a few minutes. Something is off. A smell, the seat adjustment, a smudge on the rear view mirror. But then something always feels off to me.

I take the scenic route, figuring it'll take me longer that way and I'll only have to wait in the car for a couple of hours before Matt's old man gets up to go for his daily run.

The country road is abandoned at this time of the night. Everyone who is serious about getting anywhere takes the freeway. I drive carefully, my thoughts keep pulling me back towards the last time I saw Matt. The wild, terrified look in his eyes, the grime under his fingernails, the nervous twitch. The way he smelled, sour, unwashed but something sweet under it all, like milk gone off, like baby formula. He kept begging me to let him go. Not to follow him, not to ask questions. I made him promise me he'd talk to a therapist and let him go.

It doesn't take me that long to notice the tail. Far enough away but still there, sloppy. I step on the gas. I see the speed creep up on the speedometer. Sixty, sixty five. I can still see the tail.

Something's way off. Someone was in my car. I flick my eyes to the left, back to the speedometer, to the vehicle behind me. I don't know how I know but I do. No time to pull over; I slam on the brake to slow down some. The car following me stops dead in its tracks. I open the door and jump, landing hard in the grass and dead leaves on to the side of the road. Pain spreads through my body at first contact with the ground, like a soap bubble bursting. Real smart, I think. But then either way I could have died. I don't dare move at first, I force myself to relax, to figure out where the pain is coming from: my arm, my ribs on my left side, my cheek. There's an earthy taste in my mouth. I roll carefully onto my back breathing heavily; everything is black except for a small strip of world directly above me.

I know the car explodes but I can't see it. I barely hear the blast, but I feel it, I smell my own blood. More scars for my collection. I can't think of this now. I won't.

Instead I see frightened hazel eyes and a nervously trembling lower lip. I hear a British accent. "Just had a bit of a shock, that's all."

Alex, the girl from the airplane. That rabbit scared look of hers, the slight tang of cold sweat, and the hazy out of focus gaze. Where was she at that moment? What did she remember when she thought she was going to die? I know what I remembered. When I heard the car explode I remembered her, Alex, I remember the obvious things like her long legs, the curve of her smile, the swell of her breast through the tight fit of her jacket. But I also remember a sort of connection. A feeling I knew her. In a world where everyone has a role in the game, chess pieces, here was a real woman.

After several attempts, bathed in sweat, I manage to reach my cell phone with my good hand. As I lie there, waiting for the ambulance my mind shuts out the pain and starts analyzing: What are the chances? Another car bomb hours after Matt is killed by one? Is there a connection? Will they let me look into this? Or will I have to do it in secret?

I cough and try to sit up. I don't know how much time passes before the ambulance arrives and medics are crawling all over me. One of them tries to move my arm.

Before I black out there is time for one last thought: no way will I escape the shrinks now.


	3. Two

Sorry it took forever for me to update: lots going on. Thanks so much to Lucida Bright for beta-ing and getting me through the tough parts! You're really, really the best and you really motivate me. Extra Sacher Torte und Schokolade mit Rum und Schlag. Thanks to Clownish for the US Beta! Happy holidays to everyone. All I want for Christmas is your review!

Two:

The hangover starts just about as soon as she meets Carol at Arrivals and is dragged to the nearest bar. Carol's hair has gone silver and is clipped short and close to the scalp. Her nails and lips are still stained bright red and she smells of Boucheron perfume and baby powder. Her clothes are as stylish as ever. After the bar they take a taxi home and Carol makes cocktail after cocktail in her tiny kitchen; after eight vodka martinis she dispenses with all pretence and drinks the vodka straight from the bottle. She admits to loving Tim Price in silence all those years while Alex just sits there in shock, her nerves in shreds.

"You'll see one day baby girl." Carol says her voice soft and raspy. "One day you'll love someone. Really love them. And you'll lose him. It's like a natural disaster… more than a decade later you'll still be shaking your head trying to pick up the fucking pieces."

Carol smokes Camels one after the other and stubs them out in her Venetian ash tray, the red lacquered nails scraping the glass. She plays Tom Waits on her little compact disk player and cries through 'Martha'.

Alex sleeps fitfully that first night. She dreams of a man she can't reach, someone just a step ahead in the rain. Like Scarlett O'Hara in 'Gone with the Wind'. She reaches for him, calls his name but he doesn't turn around. She can't even hear the name she calls; she only sees the shape of her lips. John? Dean? His coat tails whip sharply about his ankles. He turns his head slightly and lifts his hand to his lips to draw in a lungful of smoke. In the rain his features are blurred, she only catches a flash of his eyes: blue, sharp, angry.

In the morning Alex awakes bleary eyed and exhausted to find Carol in the kitchen flipping pancakes. She tries to steer away from the topics broached the night before but Carol isn't having any of it.

"Never regret sex or hangovers sweetheart. You did it because you wanted it. Life's too short for regret."

She loves Carol's flat: the tiled floor with its black and white checkerboard pattern, the kitchen with its tall bar stools and windows full of herbs. The plum coloured velvet sofa with its golden cushions. The terracotta mosaic in the bathroom and the old fashioned bathtub with clawed feet. Alex loves her room. She loves the crisp white bedclothes with eyelet lace, the ice blue walls, the pale parquet of the floor, the virginal feeling of it. On the wall beside the door to her room is an old photograph of Carol from the 70s. She's challenging the camera with her gaze. Her eyes are so pale they look turquoise, her eyebrows arch above them like Garbo's, her hair is naturally red like a fox's tail, and her lips are stained scarlet. She wears a grey silk print blouse and a wide tie. Beneath the photograph Alex reads her father's signature.

Alex is full of energy on her first day of work, she gets up extra early, and she spends hours choosing her outfit. She wants to seem responsible, professional. She toys with the idea of cutting her long hair but in the end she just can't do it. Anyway they didn't pick her for her hair, they picked her for her mind. And, well, because Aunt Carol called in a favour. She's going to work as a counsellor in the Directorate of Support. She feels fabulously grown up and so much smarter than usual just repeating the title to herself. The drive to McLean doesn't take as long as she imagined it would but the car park is enormous and it takes her forever to find the right entrance. The security at the gate is a little intimidating, but then an assistant comes down to meet her and they let her pass. The assistant, Laurie, tries to hurry past the lobby and to the elevators but Alex pauses to admire the famous granite seal on the ground. The word that's on Alex's tongue as she takes in her surroundings is 'majestic'. Laurie waits for her patiently as she stares at the statues and plaques.

"I'm sure you can take the full tour as soon as Ms. Kurtz is done with you." Laurie says apologetically. She has a southern accent Alex finds endearing. "And as soon as you have your employee's pass you can see the library. It's amazing."

Ms. Kurtz, her new boss, is a short round woman with steel grey hair and hard eyes. She insists Alex call her Susan but says it so sharply that Alex doesn't dare. Ms. Kurtz isn't at all what she was expecting. Alex has to admit she's a little afraid of her. There's something very no nonsense about her and Alex already can tell there are going to be clashes between them in the future. After meeting with Ms. Kurtz – _Susan –,_ Alex gets her tour. Laurie is right, the library is amazing but she likes the memorial garden with the fish pond the best.

She doesn't meet the director of Support, Carol's friend Nicholas Bolland, nicknamed Bollie; that disappoints her a bit. According to the executive assistants he's gorgeous despite being well into his fifties. Alex wonders what sort of relationship he had with Aunt Carol all those years ago, when he was in politics and she was working on his campaign.

Soon she gets into the rhythm of driving to McLean, passing security, seeing clients, lunching in the courtyard with Laurie and the other assistants. She tries to befriend the other counsellors but they aren't very forthcoming. On the weekends Alex goes for walks. She goes to the supermarket with Carol and chooses vegetables and fruit and fresh bread. She watches her aunt cook the evening meal and carefully writes down the recipes. Alex is a terrible cook but she's hoping to learn a few dishes to surprise Evan with when she goes home for Christmas. A home cooked meal might soften his heart.

Alex is somewhat shocked at how quickly she is adjusting to this quiet life. But for the one late night cocktail binge with Carol, little disturbs the peace. In London Alex had been wild; she loved dancing, flashy clothes, a heady stolen kiss behind a pub. Riding pillion on her boyfriend's motorcycle without a helmet, she loved the thrill of speeding through the countryside in the pitch black, hair streaming behind her. And every time Evan begged her to be more careful she loved it all the more.

She remembers every shiftless wanderer, every biker and drunken barman she ever went out with in an attempt to hurt Evan. She remembers her last lover. He had been her boss and a married man. For Alex he'd been a conquest, a sweet, broken man who was clearly stunned she'd shown an interest in him. For him she'd been forbidden fruit, almost fifteen years younger, enthusiastic, brilliant, she'd revitalised him. The expression on his face when she told him she was accepting a job with the CIA was heartbreaking but it was harmless in comparison to the look in Evan's eyes.

"Do you do it deliberately Alex?" He'd demanded. Even the fact that moving to the States would mean leaving her aging lover behind didn't manage to calm Evan down. He had never been the sort of man to shout and she found it made him look comical, it stained his cheeks pink and widened his eyes, she had never seen him so angry. At the time she thought it was brilliant. She'd even laughed at him while he raged at her.

Secure in her new office looking down into the courtyard, Alex can barely remember why she had wanted to crush Evan. There are other things to concentrate on here in Langley and before she realises it a month goes by rather uneventfully. Dozens of interviews with potential operatives, a couple of sessions with stressed agents, nothing more serious than that. Nothing involving crime so far. And no meeting with Bollie, though she does find him in a group photograph and has to admit he is gorgeous.

Her most interesting assignment to date is a man called Drake who can't seem to keep his appointments. He's been referred to her because he narrowly escaped a car bomb about a month ago. She skims over the hospital report: broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, scratches and bruises. She takes another quick look in his file. David Adams Drake, a clandestine operative. Born 1966 in Boston. Parents: Richard Drake, a lawyer and Naomi Cohen-Drake, a lady who lunches. No siblings. There's an impressive list of Ivy League schools. Degrees in languages and political science. The details of past operations. It isn't a particularly good photo or a very recent one and it's black and white. He looks clean cut, with short sun bleached hair and glasses with heavy black frames; he looks very young and very serious. He looks familiar but she can't quite place him. Finally she decides that she must have seen him somewhere in the building in the past month. That has to be the reason. Alex is certain it's the man on the bicycle. Lately every time Agent Drake has missed a session Alex has noticed a cyclist in the courtyard right outside her window.

She leans forward to look out of the window and glances at her wristwatch; it's just passed three in the afternoon, time for Agent Drake's next appointment if he turns up. He's there again, the man on the bicycle. Alex parts the blinds with one finger and looks down at the yard. He's cycling in circles increasing in speed then slowing down, larger circles, tighter circles. His body is one with the bicycle, fluid. Then he stops, gets off the bike and walks towards the entrance of the building. Alex holds her breath. One beat. Two beats. Three, four. Out he walks again, back on the bike and zips down the path.

Alex sits down at her desk and leans back in her swivel chair. Another free hour. She marks down in her book that Agent Drake missed yet another meeting. That makes it a total of four. Car bomb. She's almost glad this Agent Drake keeps missing his meeting; she doesn't know how it will feel speaking to the survivor of a car bomb, what emotions will resurface.

Alex picks up the telephone on her desk. She dials the international number. The sheer naughtiness of this action, making a personal call during work, let alone to another country, excites her beyond all reason.

She tries him at home first and when she gets the answer phone she dials his work number. She listens to an instrumental version of 'Making Whoopee' for a few minutes while she waits for him. Her stomach does a flip when she hears his voice.

"Hello, Evan." She says. Whose is that reed thin voice? Her own voice? She sounds about five years old.

Evan sounds the same as he always does, just more relieved. The conversation starts off fine. She tells him about her new colleagues, her new healthy quiet life, what books she's read. It sounds good, like she's finally settled down. He should be happy for her.

"When are you moving out of Carol's flat?" He asks instead. His contemptuous tone grates at Alex's nerves like chalk on a blackboard.

"I'm happy there." She says simply. She has no energy to fight today. She finds the less you practice arguing the less patience you have for it. One month ago she would have relished the practice. She would have spent all week collecting hurtful things to say. All she wants now is to be civil. She wants her godfather back.

"Just promise me you'll make new friends, real friends not just nice colleagues, that you'll spend time with people your own age." He pleads. "Promise me, Alex?"

What he means is stop spending so much time with Carol. She wants to say she'll do nothing of the kind, that he isn't her father. That was a good tactic when she wanted to be particularly hurtful. She wants to tell him she's never coming home, that she doesn't want to see him ever again. But the words stick in her throat and before she can cough them out, the door to her office opens. Alex promises Evan she'll make new friends quickly, mutters something about a patient arriving and tells him she loves him mechanically.

Only after she has replaced the receiver does she allow herself a look at the visitor. She looks right into his green eyes. It's like she's known him for years, knowing the casual way he wears his suit, the boyish smile, and the floppy brown hair. "Daniel!" she exclaims, and blushes. Why couldn't she be cool, instead of behaving like a groupie? She pulls herself together and smiles calmly. "It is Daniel Davis, isn't it?"

"It's Drake really, David Drake."

"How extraordinary." She speaks calmly, but her pulse is racing. She frowns as she realises the extent of his injuries. 'You look dreadful..."

"Gee, thanks. Nice to see you too." He laughs, and extends his hand to shake hers. An electric shock causes Alex to let go just as soon as their skin makes contact. His touch is so familiar she almost reaches for his hand again. But she doesn't. She can't stop smiling; somehow she wouldn't be more pleased if she'd stumbled upon her oldest friend.

"It's perfectly reasonable," she mutters to herself.

"What is?" There's a hint of amusement in his voice. His expression is warm, personal. He doesn't seem at all fazed to see her here.

"The coincidence," she explains. "Meeting you on the plane and now you turn up here. But you don't seem surprised."

He laughs a little. A nice laugh. An honest one. "A colleague pointed you out to me. I was surprised, believe me; I've just had a little more time to adjust. But it's a good thing, isn't it?"

"I'll reserve judgement," she says, still trying to look cool and professional.

"You never called me." He shakes a finger at her mock sternly.

"You missed your last four sessions," she counters, shaking a finger back at him.

"You got me there," he grumbles good-naturedly.

He's holding something in his left hand, a silver bicycle helmet. Alex lets out a little yelp of triumph.

"You're the cyclist!"

He laughs again. "Good exercise."

She can't stop looking at him. She read his file she should have been expecting this. He looks like he's been in a fight. His right hand is bound in a brace. The left side of his face is covered in a yellowish bruise, his cheek is marred by angry looking scabs, dull purple shadows lurk underneath his eyes but he's beautiful. And not her type. Though he is older than she is he's still too young for her, there's no denying her father fixation. But his eyes are the loveliest colour and his smile could charm the stoniest heart.

"So what do you think? Can you help me out?" He's asking her.

Alex finds herself nodding and smiling then she realises she hasn't heard a word. "Sorry what?"

Drake chuckles. "I'm fine, really just a couple of bruises. So I was hoping you could tell them I'm fine and we could go for a drink instead."

"Are you crazy?"

"I thought you just agreed to say I wasn't." Drake says smoothly. The twinkle in his eyes makes her want to hit him. Or kiss him.

"I did no such thing." She says. "I shouldn't even be the one to evaluate you. The way we met might affect my judgement."

She lifts her chin another inch and narrows her eyes at him. She isn't going to budge no matter what he says next. However much he smiles at her.

"We can't talk here anyway." He says, grinning.

"We're not talking anywhere else, and you've not yet explained why you missed the past four sessions."

Another grin splits his face. "Alex, just get your coat."

Alex can't explain what she does next. It might be a reaction to the past three tame weeks with Aunt Carol. All the thirst for adventure is pent up inside her, dying for an outlet. It might be a desire to spit in the face of authority. Or that David Adams Drake is just so bloody charming. Or it might be something even stronger than all that. A feeling this is what she is supposed to be doing, as foolish as that may sound. Whatever the reason, Alex puts on her coat and follows Drake out of the building. He insists they take her car and his hesitation before they get in suggests he isn't as fine as he says he is. She tries to get him to talk as they drive, to try to reveal something about his state of mind but he isn't very obliging, instead he just gives her directions. He takes her not to a bar or a cafe but to an indoor ice skating rink.

Alex hesitates at the entrance for a second; he's a fruit loop, she thinks. But it's too late now. They sit in the cafeteria overlooking the rink drinking artificial hot chocolate with miniature marshmallows and eating doughnuts filled with raspberry jam. The place smells of Christmas two months too early and of coffee and a little like sweat. These scents combined are strangely comforting.

"Skating calms me. I used to skate all the time; I played hockey in college." Drake says his eyes fixed on the skaters. The wobbling children, the sleek coordinated couples and one lone girl skating slowly but beautifully to the far left side. Alex marvels at her style, the way she doesn't miss a turn, doesn't hesitate at a single jump.

"So you need to be calmed?" Alex asks sensing her chance has come. When she turns to look at him his expression is serious. That boyish smile is gone. Its disappearance makes Alex feel a little colder.

"My best friend died, Alex. Matt Greenwald. He was a good man. A good agent. He didn't deserve that end - he was a really good man. I guess you'll say no one deserves to die in a car bomb."

Alex doesn't say anything. Car bombs really seem to be following her. She concentrates on his hands holding the Styrofoam cup and hopes he doesn't notice how uncomfortable the subject is making her. Her cheeks are warm – how embarrassingly unprofessional; some counsellor she's turning out to be. She tries to cover up her discomfort by asking a lot of questions.

"You think the two are connected? I mean his death and your attempted murder? You barely escaped. How have you been sleeping? Eating?"

He looks like he's miles away, staring at the figures on the ice again, but past them. He ignores her questions.

"The thing is Alex. I think I know who did this. There's a man Matt worked with during the Bosnian war. He's in our custody now. He's promised to testify against others, bigger fish, in exchange for a softer sentence, but I think he's a bigger fish than we previously suspected. I think Matt could have proven that. Maybe he thought Matt told me something. So… the bombs." He stops for a second to see if she's still following him, and she motions for him to continue.

"They're putting at least one agent on him for protection before he testifies. I need to be that agent. And it needs to happen now or they'll assign someone else." He finishes the last of his donut in two bites. He even eats beautifully.

Well, Alex thinks, I did want a little more action and now I have it. "So you want me to say you're fit before I've had a chance to assess you?" She shakes her head. "I've only been here a month; apart from risking your safety, and that of the witness, I'm risking my job. You're asking too much."

"Look, I'm really fine. And once I get to the bottom of this I'll be even better. I'll keep seeing you; you'll see I'm fine. Just tell them I'm fine now."

People who keep repeating the word fine usually aren't, she tells herself. It had been her favourite word for years after her parents' death.

"No." She grits her teeth. Something in his expression grips her. She can't seem to look away. Or it could be the large bruise on his face it makes him look like a scrappy little boy who has been in a fight with an older violent brother.

"Where's your sense of adventure?" He was calling her chicken. "Think about it? Please?"

Alex doesn't know many men who said please. She knows men like Evan and her father who can talk circles around that word for hours without actually uttering it. She knows men who just take what they want and aren't apologetic about it. And men like her last lover, who have simply stopped trying to get what they want. She promises to think about it. Thinking about it wasn't saying yes. She makes him promise to come to next week's session.

"Oh, and dinner." Drake says the smile returning. "Say you'll have dinner with me this weekend."

Alex stares at him in shock. "But you're my client."

"Then have dinner with Daniel Davis. He's not your client. Besides he knows all the good restaurants. How do you feel about seafood?"

She is outraged, but she feels herself nodding. Life is short, and his eyes are an extraordinary colour when he smiles.


End file.
